Category Archives: SS – Series Three “Fractured Retina”

Paintings by Marc Moses

IMG_0519 No Time 2 Spare, 36″ x 36″, acrylic on canvas

I used to worry that I intentionally aimed for accessibility where so many of the artists I most admire, like de Kooning, aimed for the more abstract? Recently, though, I’ve begun to feel that if my orientation is toward the observer, it is partially because my transition from pure observer to artist occurred so late, and also because my vantage point is no longer at the center of the map. Now when I reach out to the observer, it is through the angles and abstractions of others who have pushed and distorted the envelope. Art is, for many, a spiritual endeavor. Still, I personally believe that it is in the context of a non-theistic world that artistic expression holds even greater significance. Every artwork does, in fact, represent its own particular affirmation of intentionality over randomness. It was an encounter with color later in my life that triggered my birth as painter, but it occurred decades after I had first learned to sketch, which I did sitting in on life-drawing classes a friend’s father taught at Parsons in my early teens. I developed some facility drawing with charcoal back then, but never considered venturing beyond black and white, where there is an obvious right or wrong. Color would, I worried, only introduce more complications and aware of my difficulty with decisions, as basic as buying toothpaste, it seemed safest to stay away from color.

phpThumb_generated_thumbnailjpgView from the Office, 36″ x 44″, acrylic on canvas

I continued to sketch sporadically over the years. Nevertheless, the feeling of being intimidated by color made it hard to take myself more seriously as an artist. Not until decades later, in the aftermath of a drug addiction and having lost my apartment, I ended up living at a city shelter on the lower east side. This shelter, however, had an art studio that had been sponsored and subsidized by a philanthropist with a true love for the arts. I can honestly say that I spent most of my waking hours at the shelter there in that art room. And given the shelter’s 6:00 a.m. wake-up call for breakfast, I had a lot of waking hours during that year. Rejecting a history of only sketching and drawing in black and white, I started exploring and I soon discovered a passion for color which has kept me painting ever since.

phpThumb_generated_thumbnailjpg-1L.E.S. 2012, 48″ x 48″, acrylic on canvas

Avoiding color was one of those decisions that had made perfect intellectual and logical sense. Also it is a decision which proved to be entirely wrong when I discovered a sensitivity to color that allows me to match a given color or shade. Had my life followed a less tumultuous path, many things would be quite different and it is most likely I would not be a painter, and that would be too bad because painting, more than anything else, really feels like what I should be doing.

To see more work by Marc Moses, visit his website at


“Midtown Crosshairs” by Brian Alvarado

Circa- 2:00 AM,

Circa- the West 50s,

and yet impedimentary

flows of traffic persist,

mostly droves of

taxi-worker drones

finally calling it quits.

The transcendent traverse

of shame and defeat

is always an undesirable one.

Because going crosstown then (or anywhere for that matter)

was indicative of specific resolutions.

The internal wake-up call—

the hand spent too long on

the surface of the most

hellacious of stoves,

the reminder that in this dog-eat-
cat-eat-dog-and-cat world,

slow and steady skims the lace,

and ultimately,

the nicest of predators

do finish last.

This has been “Midtown Crosshairs” by Brian Alvarado.

Brian Alvarado is a sonnet, opera, and craft beer enthusiast born and raised in the Bronx, NY.


“Avocado” by Amy Dusto


It was so terrible when I asked that nice guy with the Bluetooth who I always see heating up his lunch in the kitchenette, I asked him if there were any extra spoons around. I wanted to eat this avocado half I had in a baggie that I was kind of hiding behind the coffee maker while I asked, because it was kinda gross, but you know, so delicious.

And, as I’m asking, this cute guy—cute like he’s young and fit, and seeing him in a tie and collar doesn’t make my neck itch (he wears it well)—and of course he’s suave, all “I have a spoon. Let me get it.” Continue reading


“Nile in the Snow” and “A Photograph in Los Angeles, 1987″ by Jack Caswell

Jack Caswell - Nile in the Snow

Jack Caswell – Nile in the Snow

“A Photograph in Los Angeles, 1987″

When poets and prostitutes speak of the glory and freedom of the road, my heart explodes in summer showers of fiery passion. The dancing dream of leather and rubber grinding the gravel sends songs to my soundbox and bakes my beating breast piping hot.

But the parents’ eyes cut a black hole in the world, raging with forgotten dreams and ancient aspirations, every hopeless hope endowed on their children, whose spines already creak from months sleeping in a twisted heap in the back seat. The father’s arms clutch desperately around his bride’s worn, pale shoulders as his gaze pleads for shelter.

I stand here on the ledge, gazing down as a god. The portal remains closed, and, giving up, I turn to run. My palm across my face, I try vainly to remove the skin of a war-torn infant. The gravel itches my feet. Bleeding blisters slither against one another, as they did that night we lost our car, gambled away by my father’s monstrous beard, a universe to parasites.

And all at once I stutter and stop, silent, still, like stepping on the moon for the first time. And I see myself. I am my own, I swear, because tombstones gasp from the soil, waiting on names much like mine. I am my own, I swear, because my old back seat companion fucks a stranger, and a fountain springs out of her riches. I am my own, I swear, because the pale, worn shoulder hides in the mud, and it slowly ceases. Because I am still brave, and I am still compassionate, and I am still a man, I think.

The has been “Nile in the Snow” and “A Photograph in Los Angeles, 1987″ by Jack Caswell.

Jack Caswell is a playwright, screenwriter, and photographer living in Brooklyn, New York.

More from Jack here:

“Distractions” by Corey Deiterman

She lightly brushed against the bedside table as she exalted herself from the bed, post-coitus, post-cuddle, post-caring. He still lied there with his matted, sweat-soaked hair resting uncomfortably against the cold, misshapen pillow, and he was rubbing his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the lamp beside him. It burned hot near his still heaving body. The ceiling fan swung above him around and around like a hypnotist’s watch and he allowed his mind to wander, free from the confines of carnal desires.

It seemed in those moments that he was able to truly think. It was one of the few times. He asked her if it was alright for him to smoke a cigarette inside, and she nonchalantly obliged, tossing him one of her own American Spirit light cigarettes. He fumbled around the table next to him for a lighter and gently lit the ember, the flame quivering in his hand underneath the fan’s rustling winds. He took deep drags off of it, ashing off the side of the bed into a cup of water he’d probably be better off drinking if he wanted to avoid a hangover in the next few hours. Continue reading